


The Ides of March

by Lakritzwolf



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Agron gets his revenge, Caesar gets what he deserves, Fix-It, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-03 15:42:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13999320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lakritzwolf/pseuds/Lakritzwolf
Summary: I hate Caesar, and I hated that Agron never got his revenge. So I wrote this on the Ides of March as a gift for Agron.





	The Ides of March

“Caesar!!”

It must be a sign, a blessing from the gods. In this pandemonium, this maelstrom of countless screaming and dying men and horses, amidst all this madness and dying and killing, Agron lays eyes upon this one man.

He swore to have Caesars head. Caesar had shown nothing but scorn.

True, he is not really grasping a sword. His hands will never serve him like they have. But here he stands, alive, breathing, blood splattering his face and dripping down his blade.

All else fades out of his mind; the battle, the soldiers, the rebel army, even Nasir vanishes towards the edge of his consciousness. A small part of his mind knows he is still there of course, but his whole world is reduced to the man in front of him, and the feisty grin Agron will enjoy carving out of that ugly face.

Only, Caesar is not grinning now. He stares at the warrior in front of him in wide-eyed bewilderment.

“I nailed you to a cross!” He yells, in almost comically, scandalized confusion.

“And I swore I have your head!” Agron snarls and charges.

Caesar has the advantage here, despite Agron’s superior size and strength. Caesar has not been nailed to a cross, beaten and tortured within an inch of his life. He has had food, rest, and wine since they had parted ways, whereas Agron was barely healed enough to join the battle.

It does not matter. Agron will not leave this battlefield alive anyway, but it lifts heart to know that neither will the rotten cunt in front of him.

The shield-weapon Nasir crafted is well-suited for battle, for charging and splitting flesh, but not so much for one-on-one combat. Agron doesn’t care. He will impale himself on Caesar’s blade if that gets him close enough to rip out his throat. With his bare teeth if he has to.

Caesar however sees his advantage and presses it, and within short succession of each other Agron has received a cut to the thigh and the unprotected forearm. More pain, more bleeding, and still no closer to his goal, which is grinning again. Caesar can feel Agron’s waning strength, and a well-aimed kick makes him lose his balance.

The moment one of his knees touches the ground however a shadow rushes past him, so fast Caesar sees him too late. Nasir is in front of Agron in a heartbeat, teeth bared in a silent growl. It gives Agron the second he needs to get onto his feet again, and Nasir, on instinct, moves aside again, but not before ramming his spear into the back of Caesar’s knee. The Roman screams and staggers back.

“He is yours,” Nasir says as Caesar loses his balance now, hamstrung in one leg.

Agron steps closer, relishing the moment, and Nasir at his back is tense, watchful, his senses trained on their surroundings. Caesar looks up at Agron, breathing heavily.

“I do not make empty threats,” Agron says with a cold smile. “Or empty promises.”

“You and your fucking rebels are dust under the heel of the republic,” Caesar spits, and Agron kicks him in the face.

As Caesar’s back hits the ground Agron takes another step and rests his foot on the Roman’s chest. Caesar looks up at him, blood spilling from nose and mouth. He spits out a few teeth as he tries to speak.

“Rome will prevail,” he slurs.

“Rome can kiss my dirty, hairy ass,” Agron replies and kicks his face again.

The sound of crunching bones has never been so satisfying.

Caesar is beyond speaking now with his ruined mouth, and Agron kneels down, aiming to bring his blade into the right angle.

“I do not care if Rome prevails or not,” he says in grim satisfaction. “We have brought freedom to thousands. Rome may win, but you will not be there to celebrate.” He leans closer, his blade resting against Caesar’s throat. The Roman is done being feisty and cocky, he tries to look defiant but the fear in his eyes is unmasked. “I will not live to see another sunrise, but I will have outlived you, you fucking cunt.”

Agron cannot behead the man, it is not possible with the weapon he wields. But he can slice his throat, and he savours every second of it. How the blood wells out from beneath his blade, fleeing the parting flesh. How Caesar’s eyes widen in pain and terror. How the scream turns into gurgling, bubbling coughs as it drowns in blood. How the light flees from his eyes, sadly all too soon.

Agron straightens up as the corpse stops twitching, and looks up at the touch of a hand on his arm. Nasir looks at him and nods. Agron nods back.

Then Nasir rams his spear into the ground and bends to retrieve Caesar’s sword. The sword he has taken from Naevia’s dying hands. Holding the blade in two hands it takes a single stroke to separate Caesar’s head from his body. He then impales the severed head on the blade and holds it up for Agron to see.

“CAESAR IS DEAD!!” Agron screams at the top of his lungs.

Riders approach, and Nasir throws the impaled head, sword and all, as hard and far as he can before retrieving his spear again. They share a short but feral kiss before they dive into the battle again, leaving Caesar’s maimed remains to Crassus and his men.

Agron knows that now, he can face his kin in the afterlife again with pride, for having taken the life of the man who had tortured and crippled him.

Revenge has never tasted so sweet.


End file.
